


Paper Cranes

by LilyRun



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prison, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Prison, Racism, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-20 19:21:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12439917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilyRun/pseuds/LilyRun
Summary: Ex-ice skater Yuuri is serving the end of his sentence in History Hills Correctional Facility when he gets caught up in a war started by prison leader Victor Nikiforov.





	Paper Cranes

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is going to be a long, dark AU that focuses on Yuuri's experiences in prison. I couldn't bear to bastardize any of the characters, so antagonists are OCs. Your feedback would be greatly appreciated!

Yuuri sweeps his bangs back off his forehead. He runs his fingertips into the soft shells of his ears, parts his lips, lifts and then lowers his tongue. When he closes his eyes, he can pretend he's just making himself press-ready before stepping onto the ice, the first notes of Dvorak's Romance in F Minor cued for his opening pose. _Representing Japan in the Grand Prix Finals, Katsuki Yuuri._ Flashbulbs. Applause. The way the world felt when he had something to love.

Now the only thing he wants is to get through this strip search.

"All clear," says West, clicking off his penlight. West's a strange, chilly warden, and when he leans back to snap on a lubricated latex glove, his eyes go soft and cruel. "All right, Katsuki. Cavity search. Step up to the table and—"

"I know what to do," says Yuuri. Moving slowly, he places his palms flat on the table, resets his feet shoulder-width apart, and takes a deep breath. _This part gets easier_ , he'd been assured once by a kinder guard, back near the beginning of his sentence with Crossings Penitentiary. But he's three years in now, and it doesn't. The only thing that gets easier is how quickly he puts out.

He's still stunned that his transfer to History Hills Correctional actually went through. He suspects it's because he was a player: he'd had a healthy group of inmates under his thumb at Crossings, enough to make him virtually untouchable by everyone but the capo—and touch, that bastard did. It's not like Yuuri's new to being bottom bitch, but behind bars, no one buys him dinner beforehand. That's why he's keeping his head down here. No pulling for power. No playing the game; no being anyone's bitch-boy. With four long years behind him, all he's gotta do is keep his mouth shut and do his time. _Eight months and out_ , he keeps telling himself. _Eight months and out._

West finishes the cavity search with a vindictive twist of his finger, extracting himself almost disappointedly. "Clear," he says, stripping off his glove. "Get dressed."

Yuuri steps back into his underwear, his orange jumpsuit. He knows what the color means: medium-risk. The screws will have their eyes on him. He waits at the door until someone buzzes him through, and West dismisses him into general with a wave of his hand. Guess he's on his own now. Yuuri's barely made it three steps before the jeering starts.

"Well, well. The Ice Prince himself."

"Look who missed the Kiss-and-Cry and landed in the Bend-and-Cough."

"Kat-soo-ki rhymes with nookie. C'mon, baby, make my day."

It's easy to ignore the comments, the sloppy kissing noises. Responding would be below him. Yuuri sets to work finding Cellblock D—the last one, unsurprisingly, where "other" inmates get sorted. Asian, Native American, whoever else. Another testament to prison's racial disunion. Crossings had a sizeable Korean population, which Yuuri sternly controlled, making sure his boys were safe and well-behaved. Anywhere else, a Japanese man running a Korean crew would be problematic, but in prison, all bets are off and the Others stick together. It's more survival than it is progressiveness.

Yuuri's lost somewhere near the cafeteria when a gorgeous brown boy at one of the tables glances up and meets his gaze. Immediately his expression brightens. He's clearly Thai or Filipino, and after he downs a coffee and deposits the mug in the proper bin, he hastens to meet Yuuri with a hand extended.

"Katsuki, hi," he says, pronouncing it correctly. "I'm Phichit Chulanont. We're bunkmates."

"Hi," says Yuuri, accepting Phichit's handshake. He already likes Phichit; his bright eyes, his wide, unselfconscious smile. "Any idea where I can get a damn toothbrush?"

"Yeah, we'll get you all set up. Follow me."

He lets Phichit lead him back through the prison, stopping briefly at commissary to pick up some basic hygiene items like shampoo, toothpaste, and soap. The attendant doesn't charge them. Yuuri wonders if they're free for fresh meat. The racist heckling doesn't stop as they traverse the halls—"C'mere, dumplings!" "Wouldn't mind me some Chinese takeaway"—but Phichit pays it no mind, chattering away about the day.

"Lunch is at eleven. Dinner's at five. In between we've got work; they'll assign you to a unit soon. I'm on aquaculture. We provide the fish for a local grocery chain. You're going to get tired of tilapia here, let me tell you."

That's new, and it explains the smell and the pool-like fixtures scattered across the property. At Crossings, Yuuri just handled the laundry—linens and soiled uniforms, the occasional load of whites from a lazy warden. He's wondering now if that was an especially good gig. Soft soap scents; the quiet of it; the comforting, moist heat from the steam press. Surely that beats raising tilapia. Phichit sounds like he genuinely enjoys his job, but he smells softly of dark water.

Cellblock D is small and clean. There's a table in the common area surrounded on both sides by barred chambers. As Yuuri and Phichit enter, an attractive inmate standing at the sink scoffs and retreats to his cell, pulling the door most of the way shut behind him.

"That's Seung Gil," says Phichit. "I don't know much about him; he's not very friendly. Guang Hong's in here too, but he's out with his boyfriend, Leo de la Iglesia." He hesitates. "He's under Latino protection."

There's a long, loaded moment. Yuuri knows what he's going to ask, and braces for it, throat tight.

"Do you play the system?" Phichit says quietly.

"No," says Yuuri. "Not anymore." Then, when Phichit's expression begs elaboration: "I was the capo's boyfriend. It put me in a bad spot. My boys and I got targeted whenever there was a bid for top dog; it got me hospitalized a few times. I'm done playing, you know? I just want to serve my time and get out of here."

Phichit nods. He looks torn between relief and disappointment; a complicated reaction that makes Yuuri blink. Then Phichit clears his throat and smiles. "We don't say 'capo' here," he says. "It's 'tsar.' On account of Victor Nikiforov."

"He run the show in here?"

"Hell, he runs the show _out_ of here. He's got connections everywhere. Hooks up his boys with really nice jobs when they're released. You're not going to get anything without cozying up to him, just so you know."

"Good thing I don't want anything," says Yuuri.

"Yes," says Phichit, winking. "That's very good. Hey, would you like some tea?"

He crosses the room toward the counter in the corner, which holds a coffeemaker, a hot water kettle, and an assortment of teas and sugars. He's just barely turned the kettle on when the strip search warden, West, appears at the entryway and knocks lazily.

"Chulanont, you've got an appointment," he says.

Phichit stiffens visibly. He fumbles one of the teabags, fingers shaky. "Now?"

"Now," says West, drawing out the syllable until it's sarcastic, mean.

"Okay." Phichit forces a grin, hands Yuuri the Styrofoam cup he's holding, and passes close by him on his way to West. "I'll be back in a bit. It was nice meeting you!"

"Nice meeting you too," says Yuuri automatically.

The two of them leave together, and Yuuri feels chills prickle along his neck. West doesn't touch Phichit, but only just; his hand is hovering near the small of his back in an overly familiar way that makes Yuuri want to hiss. Surely not. Not a _warden_ , of all people—

"He's fucking him," says a voice behind him.

He turns. Seung Gil is standing there with his arms crossed, leaning against the doorjamb of his cell. He's Korean, compactly built and stoic with a strong, handsome brow. Yuuri is automatically wary, but Seung Gil seems disinterested in him. He examines the fingernails on his left hand.

"Not that that's news," says Seung Gil, without looking up. "Everyone's fucking Chulanont."

Yuuri feels a low rush of anger. "And it hasn't occurred to you to put a stop to it?"

"'I'm done playing,'" Seung Gil says, quoting him in a savage, mocking tone. "Isn't that what you said? What, you going to hop in the game just to save some kid who doesn't know how to defend himself?"

Heat blossoms in his cheeks. "I didn't say that."

"I know you didn't, Katsuki. I know you don't plan to say _anything_." It's a challenge, and when Yuuri doesn't rise to it, Seung Gil gets bored and points to the doorway across from him. "You're in there," he says, and disappears back into his own cell.

Yuuri stands there for a long time, impotent and angry. It's ridiculous, letting Seung Gil get to him this way, but Yuuri's nonparticipation in prison politics is a new and frustrating change. He didn't expect to be faced with a victim of the system so soon. Phichit Chulanont is incandescent, kind. He's not a player, and Yuuri doesn't want to see him hurt, but—

—but nothing. Yuuri requested this transfer. He opted out of all this hierarchal bullshit when he left Crossings, and that's where he intends to leave it. Phichit is not his concern. His only obligation is to himself.

He replaces the Styrofoam cup, drops off his new belongings on his bunk, and leaves to explore.

History Hills is small for a prison. The inmates are packed in, and the close quarters lend themselves to a strange, tangible tension that Yuuri ignores as he orients himself. There's a laundry room, custodial closets, shower blocks, a mess hall, a kitchen. A room filled with chairs and a projector screen, maybe for movies or meetings. A workout room that reeks of sweat. 

Yuuri is in the library when two handsome men lean against the bookshelf on either side of him, the blond one in front going so far as to box Yuuri in with one toned, soliciting arm. "Hello," he purrs. His voice is deep and sensual. "Yuuri Katsuki. I must say, you seem shorter in person."

A figure skating fan, then, or at least someone who watched the news when his case first started receiving public attention. It was highly sensationalized, of course: Yuuri was alternately played up as a merry murderess or a damsel in distress; always that victimized angle, always the most emasculating of photographs. One shot in particular went around of him in the purple-and-gold-sequined shirt with the scooped neckline he'd worn for his performance to Yiruma's "Till I Find You." His expression was deceptively vulnerable that day, his neck long and pretty and exposed.

People expecting that wilting flower routine from him in real life are in for a rude awakening. Yuuri tries to duck under the blond's arm, but the man behind him seizes his shoulder. Yuuri shoves him away, turns, and slaps him sharply across the face. "Don't touch me," he says.

"Oh dear," murmurs the blond, fussing over his friend. "Otabek, are you okay?"

"Fine," says Otabek. He'd received the blow without a change of expression.

The man begins laughing. "Ladies and gentlemen, we've got a hitter! Yuuri, we'll let you have that one for free, since you're new here and you don't know who we are yet." He offers Yuuri a hand, which he does not take. He shrugs that off, smiling. "I'm Christophe Giacometti, and this is Otabek Altin. We're here to escort you to the tsar."

"Victor Nikiforov?" says Yuuri.

"Ah, so you are in the loop, so to speak. Is it a triple or a quad? I rather prefer those to your Salchow."

Yuuri flushes. His Salchow is weak, and he knows it. "I don't need to meet him."

"That," says Christophe loftily, "is not your decision."

Yuuri hesitates, backed against the bookshelf. The librarian has turned a blind eye despite the threatening way Christophe and Otabek are hemming him in, which means that they've got sway here, and Yuuri would be stupid to cross them. But—Victor Nikiforov. Why? And why so soon?

"What, he a fan or something?" Yuuri asks, forcing a small, nervous laugh.

Christophe smiles at him patiently, but Otabek remains unmoved. "We're not asking again," says Otabek.

"You didn't ask the first time," says Yuuri. But when Christophe and Otabek lean back, Yuuri straightens, takes a deep breath, and follows them out of the library.

*

Compared to D, Block A is a seventy-acre estate. Dozens of pristine cells line the walls. White men loiter around a large television set in the center of the corridor, and though they look up when Yuuri walks in, no one catcalls or tells him to get back to his unit. Apparently they've been expecting him. Christophe and Otabek guide him toward the center chamber, from which laughter and rapid-fire Russian flow. They stop him at the doorway. Christophe raps on the frame, smiling.

"You’ve got a visitor, Victor."

A bright, lightly accented voice rings out: "Lovely! Send him in!"

Christophe gestures him ahead.

Yuuri takes one tentative step into the cell—and has to bite back a gasp. Lying on the cot is the most beautiful man he has ever seen. Silver bangs frame his face. He's got his arms tucked behind his head, and his stomach and arms ripple with muscle when he sits up and treats Yuuri to a wide, sexy smirk. He's obviously in charge. He's surrounded by a young, attractive crew. In particular, there's a thin boy sitting on the bed with him—scowling and magnificent with chin-length blond hair—who looks unimpressed. He blows a raspberry and gives Yuuri a thumbs down.

"Looks fatter in real life," he says.

"Yurio, show our guest some manners," says Victor. He stands slowly. He's only taller than Yuuri by a few inches, but he knows how to leverage that height difference; he seems to tower over him as he approaches. Once within reach, he takes Yuuri's hand in one of his own and lays a gentle kiss on it, lips paused against his knuckles. He smiles winningly. "Yuuri, my name is Victor Nikiforov. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Yuuri can't pin down Victor's angle. He says nothing.

Victor is unaffected by his silence. "I am a fan," he enthuses. "I used to skate myself. Your program to 'La Campenella' for your senior debut was transcendent."

"Thank you," says Yuuri cautiously.

"I couldn't believe it when they said you were transferring here! Why the change?"

Yuuri narrows his eyes. "Got too involved. Made too many friends."

"In prison, 'too many friends' means 'too many enemies,'" says Victor.

"I don't need you to tell me that."

"Hey," snaps Yurio, standing up. "Show some fucking respect. You're speaking to the tsar."

"It's okay," says Victor peaceably. "Just as Mr. Katsuki doesn't want to be known for his career or his crime, I don't want to be known as Tsar Nikiforov. Yuuri, please call me Victor."

Yuuri doesn't want to call him anything. He doesn't want to interact with a top player at all, least of all on a first-name basis, but Victor is still holding his hand, and he uses it to guide Yuuri further into his cell. His crew snickers when Yuuri stumbles a bit. Little Yurio pops his chewing gum loudly, his expression flat.

"Yuuri—may I call you that?—I'd like to get to know you better," says Victor, beaming. "What do you think?"

Licking his lips, Yuuri says, carefully, "I think that a friendship with you would come with certain, um—conditions that would complicate my time here."

Victor frowns. "Conditions such as—?"

He's going to make him say it? Yuuri swallows hard. "I'm not going to sleep with you."

And it's a sign of his acting ability that Victor actually looks stunned before he bursts out laughing. "Oh! I would never demand that of you! I'm not that type of person."

"I wouldn't know yet," says Yuuri, cheeks flushed.

"That's right. You wouldn't. Would it help if Christophe vouched for me?"

"I don't know Christophe either," he says, making Christophe chuckle behind him.

"Goodness," says Victor, sighing. He taps one finger against his lips, thinking. "It appears we're at an impasse."

Yuuri waits. He clearly hasn't been dismissed yet, and Victor's crew—an intimidatingly good-looking bunch—are watching the exchange with sharp, interested eyes. Victor is not what Yuuri expected. For a capo to act so guileless is a sign of his power here: it means he can afford to play dumb because there's something harder backing his campaign. If Yuuri humiliates him in front of his underlings, there could be hell to pay. Yuuri tries for a shaky smile.

"Victor, it's nothing personal. I just—I want to do my time and get out of here. That's all."

"How much longer you got?" asks Yurio, snapping his gum again.

"Eight months."

"Oh, that's no time at all. That'll fly right by. Especially if you have company." Victor's eyes widen, and he backpedals: "Not _that_ kind of company, of course. Friendship is really all I want."

Yuuri shakes his head. He's starting to feel cornered. He doesn't like that.

"Yuuri, how about this?" says Victor. "You think about it for a few days. See how well you acclimate here. If in that time you decide you'd like some companionship, you let me know, and I will delightedly welcome you into my little family." He hesitates, then smiles. "I don't want you to think I'm threatening you, but it can be very difficult here on your own. It always helps to have friends in high places."

Yuuri scoffs. There it is: the blackmail bit. He's only surprised it took this long. "I won't change my mind."

"All right," says Victor. He sounds legitimately disappointed. And why shouldn't he? He just got shut down by a bitch-boy. Yuuri prays that there's not going to be retribution for it. For now, Victor simply pats Yuuri on the shoulder and sprawls back onto the cot, tucking his hands behind his head again. "Yuuri, it was a pleasure meeting you."

"Okay," says Yuuri. He steps back, and meets the sinewy roadblock of Christophe's arm at the door.

"Can he go?" Christophe asks Victor.

"Yes," says Victor sadly, waving him off.

Yuuri gets the fuck out of there in record time. He hears Yurio start laughing about something as he leaves, and Victor scolds him, his voice already regaining some of its lightness and cheer. Yuuri rounds the corner out of Cellblock A and leans against the wall, panting. God, he's never met a top prisoner like Victor before—glacial beauty coupled with that kind, deceptive warmth. For a moment, Yuuri actually believed he was sincere. And that makes him the most dangerous person Yuuri has ever known.

He's shaken, so he returns to Block D instead of continuing his tour of the prison. Seung Gil's cell door is shut, and Phichit is back, sitting at the table with a book. He smiles at Yuuri when he reappears, but it's pained, strange.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi," says Yuuri. He sits down across from him. Frowns. "What happened to your neck?"

Phichit's hands fly to his throat, where angry red marks have surfaced under his chin and down near his collarbone. Yuuri realizes belatedly that they're bruises. Bruises and hickies; one of the welts is ridged with tooth imprints, and the sight of it makes Yuuri feel sickly furious. Seung Gil was right: the guard is taking advantage of him. Yuuri seizes Phichit's arm and pulls him to his feet, navigating him toward the sink.

"Phichit," he says, filled with hopeless, platonic affection. "Phichit. Honey." He wets a paper towel and begins swiping the younger boy's neck clean, then his wrists, his chin and swollen lips.

"Ow," says Phichit, wincing.

"Sorry."

They stand there in silence as Yuuri cleans him up. When he's finally satisfied—god knows he's spent enough of his own life trying to feel uncontaminated again after an encounter—he takes Phichit's hands in his, making sure they've got eye contact before he speaks: "You can't let people do this to you."

Phichit blinks, then laughs bitterly. "You got a better idea? I'm not under anyone's protection. You should be scared, too. There're plenty of people looking to hurt you already."

"I won't let them. I won't let them hurt you, either. I'm not afraid."

"Big talk," says Phichit.

"It's not just talk. You've gotta at least fight them, Phichit. If you don't try, what else have you got?"

For a moment, Phichit is quiet. Then his eyes well up, and he nods once, briskly. "You're right," he says hoarsely. "I've grown complacent. I can do better than this. Yuuri—thanks for reminding me of that. I knew there was something special about you."

Yuuri doesn't know about that, but whatever gets Phichit to stick up for himself is fine by him. He smiles, and Phichit smiles back, long and lovely.

"Don't take this the wrong way, but I'm glad you're here," he says.

"Me too," Yuuri replies—and he can almost believe it himself.

*

He and Phichit spend the night decorating their cell with magazine cutouts and paper cranes. By the next afternoon, they still haven't assigned Yuuri to a work detail, so he continues exploring the grounds on his own. He runs into Yurio in the hallway. The boy sticks out his tongue as he pushes a cart of pressed linens, looking tired and beautiful. Yuuri wonders if there's some sort of aesthetic prerequisite for Victor's crew, because he's never seen so many handsome people in the same place. Like roses blooming in a barren plot. Yuuri feels softly flattered for an instant before he looks away from Yurio. The two of them continue along their ways without speaking.

It's almost lunch time when the alarms go off.

At Crossings, the sirens meant you lie on your stomach with your hands on your head, but Yuuri doesn't know the rules yet, and he's not going to lower himself while he's alone in the corridor. No one in prison hits panic buttons. Must mean that a guard called this in, whatever it is. Yuuri gazes up at the flashing lights, fighting an inexplicable twinge of dread as he leans against the wall to wait this out.

A second later, the doors at the end of the corridor burst open. A pretty woman in scrubs and a warden wearing a blood-stained shirt are rolling a gurney toward medical. Yuuri steals a glance at its occupant as they pass by.

It's Phichit.

"Phichit!" Yuuri yelps. He falls into step with the nurse and the guard, reaching to touch his friend's face. Phichit has been brutalized: bruises ring both of his eyes, and his nose and mouth are smeared with blood. He's unconscious. One of his cheekbones looks warped and knotty. "Is he going to be okay?" Yuuri demands, following them into the medical bay. "What happened?"

"Guess he got into a scrap with another inmate," says the nurse. "Looks like self-defense."

Yuuri's steps slow. Guilt washes over him in great waves. _I did this to him_ , he thinks, watching them roll Phichit into triage. _I told him to fight back_.

After they transfer him to one of the hospital beds, the nurse pulls the curtain. Yuuri just stands there, helpless and full of self-loathing, struggling to hear what they're saying about Phichit. He must make a pretty pathetic picture, because someone behind him clears their throat. Yuuri whirls around to find a kind-faced young man with a dishwater-blond beard and mustache. He's holding an ice pack to his shoulder. He looks familiar.

"Katsuki?" says the man.

"Yes," says Yuuri. "Who are you?"

"Emil Nekola. I was there yesterday when you spoke to Victor."

 _Victor_. Yuuri has done more thinking of him lately than he's willing to admit. Victor's charm, his precariousness. His simple bid for Yuuri's companionship, so outwardly innocent. Yuuri would be lying if he said he hasn't given Victor's offer any more thought, but what would it cost him, and how could he benefit from it? All it'd really bring him is entertainment. Entertainment and—

Power. It'd bring him power. Yuuri goes still, mind churning as the nurse reaches out of the curtain to place a bloody sheaf of gauze on the tray behind her. Yuuri knows what it's like to be the top dog's bedmate at a prison. It's a perilous place; it puts a target on your back, but—could Yuuri use that to his advantage? Take a little heat away from Phichit? _Everyone's fucking Chulanont_ , Seung Gil had said, and that knowledge still wrecks him. Phichit's sweetness, his youth. The careful way he folded paper cranes for Yuuri's cell.

The Other population here isn't unified. It's only Yuuri and Phichit so far, loner Seung Gil, a tiny Chinese boy named Guang Hong whom Yuuri only met briefly before lights out. If Yuuri were to befriend Victor, he might have enough pull to bring a group together. There's power in numbers, and Victor Nikiforov has them.

Yuuri's lips firm. There's no turning back from this, and that should scare him, but it doesn't. It alights in him a wicked, ready anticipation.

He knows this game. Better: he's fucking _good_ at it.

"Nekola," says Yuuri.

"Yeah?" says Emil.

"Give Victor a message for me, please. Tell him I'll play."

As he turns around to leave medical, a warden stops him. It's West. The bastard who's screwing Phichit. "We need to strip search you if you want to go back into general now," he says, eyes flashing pitilessly. "You're acting suspicious. Don't know if you stole anything while you were here."

Yuuri blinks. "You think I shoved a pair of trauma shears up my ass or something?"

"One way to find out," says West. "Let's get you in the Bend-and-Cough, Katsuki."

"No," says Yuuri. 

West's mouth hardens. "Are we gonna have a problem here?"

"Yes," says Yuuri. It feels good. He smiles as he says it. "Yes, we are."

**Author's Note:**

> What do you think? Please feel free to leave concrit here or at my new tumblr:
> 
> https://thelilyrun.tumblr.com/


End file.
